Elysian Fields
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: Dark Fic. Set post season 4, so supposedly AU season 5. A hot call at a high school goes fatally wrong. Ensemble POVs.
1. April is the Cruellest Month

_A/N: Hey Guys. This story originally started off as a oneshot, and then I realized it would be one hell of a long oneshot, but if I made it a story I could do short chapters. Plus it gives me a break from the other two stories. It's gonna get pretty dark, hence the M-Rating. I'll put up a specific warning at the beginning of particularly M chapters. But by now just expect the swearing throughout. I mean really.  
_

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
**

Elysian Fields

Chapter 1

April Is The Cruellest Month

10:28am

Flagpole clangs like a midnight train rolling through fog. Cords and streamers weighed down by pulleys clash the metal post in the whirlwind. The fabric whips in red and white flashes against the earthen building and the granite sky. The flag is a stunted action. A salute. A solution, standing at half mast.

At the front of the school, bulbs of April tulips dot the dirt-filled plots. Blinks of pinks, yellows and reds buried among the shoddy sod growing elderly from lack of basic elements. The building stands three stories tall, but doesn't cast much of a shadow under overcast skies. The molding around the ancient front entrance swirls upwards into two prominent quills which impale the sky.

A plume of smoke leaks from the back left side like blood spurting from a broken vessel, but the wind quickly beheads it. The smell of burning brick and concrete wafts in the air. Assails his nostrils like charcoal from a barbeque.

"Greg." Eddy, face like a mountain side. Eyes squinting through the absence of light at the fuming side of a high school. Gloved hands flat on the hood of the rig. Fingers do a sports wave every few seconds, fabricate thunder. "Stairwell is the last position right? That leaves us four plausible entry points. You have to—"

"No one's going in until someone checks in." Muscles in his face fall slack and his eyes don't leave the premature sprout of smoke. The building's lapsed exhalation.

"Four entry points is going to take—"

"Ed, I have four men downwind." His ear is dead. There's no static. There's no hiss. There's no tick. There's no heartbeat. It's not from the residual shockwave. Not from the explosion. "I don't need another."

Eddy shifts towards him. A rigid action which doesn't loosen any of his limbs from their rusty sockets. Lips press and he swallows in an action louder than his mute ear. An action louder than the snap of the violent flag. "How long?"

"Five minutes on radio silence." No need for a watch. Each second is focused. Hyper extended to back curve into an hour, than a year. Like looking at amoebas through a microscope. Then the details on them. Then details on details until eventually everything is just a smoking high school.

"Five minutes could be nothing Greg."

"Five minutes is enough to bleed out."

There's no answer. Not from Eddy. Not in his ear. The flag snaps. The pulley knocks against the pole with a tinny reverberation. Sirens consume the atmosphere. His mouth is a little dry. Tastes like woodchips. A campfire. A forest fire. A house fire. A charred body. Six minutes. Draft of smoke clear cut by the vicious wind and force fed to him.

So he does all he can. Watches the crown of the school. The pooled steps like ripples in time. Like a shockwave. The puff of smoke like a haughty exhaled breath. Clears his throat drawing moisture from his gums and speaks again, "Spike. Raf. Sam. Jules. Someone speak to me."

* * *

10:15am(?)

Black. Day. Night. Dark. Jagged little piece of concrete compacting his nose. Tip turning up. Nostrils hammer heading. Breath in. Seal coated respiratory system. Coughing out dust for months. Road killed on his stomach, amphibian eyes blink again out of tune. Left one starts and halfway through the right joins in. Dark. Just dark and black in a what?

High school. Been awhile. Always getting hurt in high school. Gut punched and locker stuffed. But this—basement—hallway—storage room—stairwell. Stairwell. He was in a stairwell of an ancient high school with the others. Windows at the second floor with school pride lanyards cobblestoned up. Double doors out onto the main level. Came through double doors and—

Tongue completely coated. A lollipop dropped in sandbox. A tree trunk where people put out their cigarettes. Smacks gritty lips together and tries to push himself up, but his body crumbles. Right wrist. Right wrist not right.

Yowls like a cat getting run over by a car. Can keep the beat with his wrist. A metronome. Elaborate seconds to minutes, minutes to hours and hours back into seconds. His knees act as rods for structure, the fabric breaches and untainted skin meets mangled metal and concrete.

Sits. Thinks he sits, but is at an obtuse angle. Threatening to fall over to the left side. Wrist clung to his chest like he's petting the splattered cat. Left hand ventures into a pocket full of high school ceiling to retrieve a flashlight.

Bites down on the devices and sheds light on his beautiful new bracelet. Wrist so engorged with blood that amethyst crystals might bejewel his skin. Wonders of it's broken. Left index finger touches the red balloon, rubbery and mirroring the light. The stairwell re-explodes in each cell.

"Yeah it's broken." Air hisses out the end of his pulled balloon cord. But there's no one to listen. Not to the falsetto scream of the stretched mouth letting air rush against rubber. Not against the full out flatulence of the released hot air. In the disorientation and physical distress he forgot the three other people. For an instant he forgot the three other people.

"Spike, that you?"

But they didn't forget him. Fires his flashlight out like a lighthouse beacon, scopes it slowly over numerous piles of rubble all interchangeable in his mind. Support beams, concrete, cement, limestone, mortar, red brick, the flipside of the red brick which has been painted a cream and graffitied by generations of students.

"Yeah Raf, it's me. Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"I'm not doing too good, Man." Strong voice stringy. Hangs in the ambiance of the room thick like rainforest vines. "I'm by the doors."

"Okay." Voice neutral. Gray. Taupe. Beige. Difference undetectable because he doesn't know anything. Hobbles himself to his feet. His head is full of helium. His hinges are made of wood and his movements aren't his own.

The blast tossed him like a sack of garbage. He landed facedown just a few feet away from the stairs. The stairs vomiting up the second floor because of the bad aftertaste. The ground is mountains. The ground is frozen waves. The ground is glaciers. The ground is lava. The ground is an ice rink. The ground is used medical supplies. Every step is potentially fatal and every misstep potentially fatal and every step not taken potentially fatal.

Raf actually appears quite comfortable when the spotlight hits him. His back is flat against the wall; his legs sprawled out before his body, his arm over his torso. His face is slick with a soft sheen of sweat, and he grins weakly. It doesn't bother to reach his eyes. "Hey Spike."

"Raf, Buddy." Anxiety lights his fingertips on fire and he wants to rub his hands together, but he can't because his wrist is a dog's panting tongue. The limp body of a run over cat. A deflated balloon. "What's going on?"

Raf shifts his torso. His hands push into the ground for elevation, but the rest of his body is like his own useless wrist. "Can't feel my legs. I can't move them."

Oh shit. "How did you land?" Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. It's all he can think. Because the stairwell is large. It's large for a stairwell. Large for a high school because the high school is large for a high school because it takes in a lot of students. But four of them in the same enclosed space when the bomb went off and sent then scattering like a dropped handful of marbles. Oh shit.

"My back. It hit the wall and I fell forward." Raf observes him with bloodshot peripherals. "Sort of pushed myself back up."

"Okay, well this might just be temporary. The trauma could have caused it." Oh shit. Needs to help Raf. Needs to get him out of here. Needs to find Sam. Needs to find Jules. They all need to get out of here. "Can I take a look at your back?"

"Yeah."

Helps him forward as much as he can with a baby duckling wrist. Discovers a lead pipe with gnarled spokes protruding from the wall, which is what Raf slammed into. A gash slashes the back of his coat with blood puddling the floor. Blood and something else. At first he thinks the pipe might have been plumbing, might have leaked water. Depresses one side of the coat and more leaks out. The liquid is clear and coming from Raf's spine.

Swallows hard, and shifts him away from the pipe. Leaves a speckled trail of blood and fluid on the rubble. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No." There's a pause and squint, then a twitch in his left eye. Muscles being plucked like harp strings. "I mean I have a headache, but that's expected. Right?"

"Yeah." The ear popping. The blood flowing out of their ears in currents. The parting of the red sea. The tear streaks of plasma from their lobes. Halloween costumes to scare young children. He has a headache too. But he has all his spinal fluid.

A groan zombies through the cavern. Not from his own plum wrung wrist. Not from Raf's spilling spine. A third groan enters the party. There's a shift and the clack of concrete against concrete as a body moves.

"Raf—"

"Go on Man, I'm not going anywhere."

Hesitates without saying a word because he's been overly optimistic and not entirely truthful. Wouldn't want to be left alone down here. Doesn't really want to travel off alone even less than fifteen feet away. It was so much easier when he was lost in pain and darkness with a cat and a balloon.

Raf places a hand on his shoulder. It's heavy and slides off quickly and back onto his dead legs. "What if they're like me? You have to go help them."

Swallows the dust slushee in his mouth and nods. Finds his flashlight for him and replaces his comm. link into his burst eardrum. "Try to contact Sarge."

Stands on precarious baby goat feet. Head falls into an empty gorge. The room is dark. It's tight. The air is hot, smells of engineered chemicals, and piles in his lungs. Uses his flashlight and the dust motes shine like Christmas snowflakes. A still, calm winter's night where his breath ballroom dances in the air.

The light drools over the ground. Laps back and forth with his uneven steps. Stumbles and almost catches himself with a wine stained wrist. Instead puts his shoulder into it and squeaks out some of that hot air. Something swings from his coat like a pendulum, threatens to trip. Insidious intent.

Half crouching like a terminal tiger, he manages another few feet before collapsing. The flashlight clatters and rolls between rocks and wires. Wedges highlighting Sam as he pushes himself to a reclined sitting position. He's in the alcove beside the avalanched stairway. His one hand ungloved and flat on the curve of his skull. Eyes guarded behind lids as he groans in pain.

"Sam?"

"What the hell happened?"

"There was—" Hand slips sideways between the crevice of concrete rocks to retrieve his flashlight. Strains his fingertips as he finally pinches the light and yanks it free. "There was an explosion and—"

"Jules." Sam's hand jerks away from the back of his head. The fingertips stained the same red from Raf's back. The same red from all their ears. Despite the injury, his neck rotates at insane angles in search. "Where's Jules?"

"I don't know I—"

"You don't know?" Jams a hand into his pocket and retrieves a third flashlight. He's already standing. Knees bouncing like orange balls on tarmac courts. Throat lets out another groan, and sweat rolls down his cheek collecting the dry dust.

"I was helping Raf. He's really hurt, Sam." The comment, the seriousness of Raf's condition seems to quell any misplaced anger Sam feels.

"Sorry." It's flat, blatant but valid. "I just. I have to find her."

"I know." He knows how they are. They all know how they are. So he stands on his own used up legs. Follows him like an old dog. Like a fat pony. Watches him spin and do calculations and placements in his head. Where the blast would send her. Watches the stream of blood on the back of his head weave through his hair, down his neck and disappear underneath the collar of his coat.

They don't utter a single syllable. The only thing linking them is the crunch of material under their feet, the slow loop of their lights, and the SRU on their backs. Seconds turn into minutes and not back into seconds. It's making his whole body sink.

But Sam's head darts up, like he catches a familiar scent. He runs to her. Doesn't stop running and slides through the razored ruins like they're on a baseball diamond. The sound of fabric and maybe skin ripping echoes. Beam from the flashlight cascades on them. She's wedged on her side between two of the concrete pillars. If she was an inch or two in either direction—

"Jules?" Sam's hand blankets her neck. Finger's touching, searching for a pulse. Other arm cups her waist as he bows his head to her chest. Face, washed in dust and years of miseducation, cracks the definition of a genuine grin. "She's breathing. She's has a pulse." He laughs. A single tear falls from one of his eyes and rips a clean streak on his polluted skin. "She's alive."

"Okay, we'll have to take her over to Raf because—"

"Jules, come on Sweetheart. It's time to wake up." Arm disintegrates behind her as he probes her back for injuries. The movements she creates are not her own, but from Sam's hand kissing her spine.

"I'm going to use your blender." Vocal cords tremble like Raf's but from a different kind of pain. There's a brief daybreak. A brief lapse in privacy, giving him a skewed view into their personal lives. What happens after they leave the SRU with her stuck to his side. And Sam's dependency becomes overly apparent. "If you don't get up I'll use the blender. I swear to God, Jules."

"Sam." Cakewalks the last few steps to his teammate. Drops a sloppy left hand on his shoulder. Sees the same soot painted on Jules' face. The team insignia of bloody tributaries dried and flaking from her ears. The same gouge in the back of her head as Sam, the tail of incarnadine curving over her neck and under her coat. "She's unconscious. You're not going to be able to wake her up."

Sam nods. Sniff and snorts sweat, dirt, dust, blood, and ash. Softly, so his actions lack the basis of sound, he glides his arms underneath pinpoints of her body. The backs of knees and shoulder blades. Blood against blood. Dust and dust. Ash to ash. On his feet, sturdy as a stead. As a human statue. Atlas with the world in his arms. Smiles at him, but it's a dash. A quarter of a smile. A facial tick. "She freaks out when I use her blender. I figured it was worth a try."

Sam follows him. A blind guide dog. The clips and cricks of the rubble. The unevenness of it, but it constantly shifts. Appears in fractals. Chaos Theory. A geisha sips tea in Japan and a high school blows up in Canada. None of them were conscious to hear it, so did it happen? Can't remember what birds sound like right now. Early morning birds that comfort him in the satanic morbidity of 4am. When every dream he has comes with a crocheted landmine. Cat ate the birds. Cat ate the birds and then got run over by an SUV.

The beam from Raf's light burst outwards. They drift towards it, floppy moths to a zapper on a sticky summer night. Eyes won't unglue. Won't disengages the light and through his headache, through the muddy vision he views the veins in his eyes. Stares at the light too long. Staring at the sun will make you go blind. Staring at the moon will make you go insane.

"Hey Raf." Re-greets. Been working with him for over a year. He should what? Stand up and introduce himself again. Hi, my name's Michelangelo but no one actually knows or remembers this. I'm an SRU officer, I've been one for almost eight years, but other teams keep scoping me out and you guys have no clue. Currently I'm buried in the stairwell of a fucking school with the rest of you so if we could all just focus on getting out that would be amazi— "How are you doing? Did you get in contact with Sarge?"

"Comm. link's broken. Is—Is my flashlight still working?" Each word syncopated by a flooded engine breath.

To his left, Sam rests Jules on a large piece of vacant wall. Red brick with capillaries of white stepping through them. Positions her on her side, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. With the voicing of Raf's question, he and Sam share an identical expression of concern and confusion. The light is in his hand, rocks back and forth against the laughing lines in the ceiling like spotlights outside of downtown theaters.

Touches Raf's gyrating hands. The physical equivalent of boo because the flashlight hits his dense thighs and clatters to the ground. A wavering of illumination which make him and Sam wrench their eyes shut until it stops at the wall.

"You're flashlight's fine."

Full hand compressing the bridge of his nose and his eyes, Sam staggers away from the slab of wall to rummage through the web of rubble for the light.

"That's what I thought."

"Raf, what's going on? You're not—"

"I can't see." Raf's head tilts in avian bounces. The muted birds from the predawn fly back to his mind. Bobbing heads lining up on a telephone wire. Nodding to distinguish positions. His. His own. Eyes wide, red and robotic. All the human attributes have leaked from his back. Except his voice, his voice retains a buried terrified twang.

"I can't see."


	2. Breeding Lilacs Out Of the Dead Land

_A/N: Hey guys. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted, favorited and of course, read. I know this chapter and the last were a little lighter. Please be aware the lightness ends at the end of this chapter. Next update things will never be the same again. That is all you get.  
Also chapter titles come from T.S. Eliot's amazing quintessential modernist poem, The Waste Land. Stop reading this and go read that. Then come back if you want. _

Elysian Fields

Chapter 2

Breeding Lilacs Out Of the Dead Land

10:15am (?)

"Did you see that?"

"No."

"That?"

"No."

"That?"

"No.

"That?"

"I'm blind. Blind. I can't see shit."

"Sam, give me that flashlight."

"What?"

"Pass me your flashlight."

"Three flashlights aren't going to change anything, Spike. We need to—"

"Don't say that. Don't say things like that. We just need a little hope and—"

"I'm blind. I have the worst headache. And my legs don't work."

"Yeah, well you're not dead."

"You're not helping him by sticking flashlights in his eyes."

"Oh yeah? And what's your suggestion Dr. Braddock?"

"Have you even tried contacting Sarge yet?"

"Raf's comm. link is down."

"So is mine. Have you tried yours?"

"No. It's—It's kinda stuc—there we go. It's dead air. The base is loose, but I might—"

"Jules?"

"She awake? Sam? She awake?"

"Was I—"

"She's awake. Let's get out of here. This little wire needs to—"

"Was I unconscious?"

"And if I smash really hard on this part, then it should—"

"Yeah Sweetheart, yeah you were."

"A ha. Sarge? Ed? Do you guys copy? Yeah it's Spike. We're all conscious. Raf's in pretty rough condition though. He's got no leg movement. He can't see either."

"Just tell them I'm blind. And you forgot the headache."

"You're not blind. Not until a doctor tells you you are."

"Won't be able to pedal."

"Sam and Jules have head wounds. She just regained consciousness. I broke my wrist."

"No, no, no, no."

"Yeah. Copy that."

"Jules, you can't—"

"Can't, well I guess I could feel out the black and white but what's the use?"

"I'm not sleeping. My eyes are—"

"The stairs look completely blocked, but there might be a way to tunnel down. I would start at the second floor if it's stable."

"Thank you."

"The short and the long of it, but there's no change."

"Okay keep me updated. Sarge is sending Ed and another team to the second floor to see if they can do an extraction."

"Let me take a look."

"Raf, you okay?"

"Yeah, just—Yeah. You think there's any chance they can get us out?"

"There's four points of entry. Double doors rubbled shut. Stairs avalanched closed."

"Sam, it's fine."

"Windows probably broken and boarded with stones, and then just backhoeing a wall. Can you see this?"

"What do you think? Tell them what's going on with Sarge and Ed. Give me the flashlight. I'll stick it in my eye."

"You know there's no way I'm letting you move without me—"

"Guys, Ed and the other team are going to the second floor to find a way to get us out."

* * *

10:20am(?)

Perches at her feet. Just like on the couch at home. When she's really tired she'll put her feet in his lap. Fall asleep with her face tucked into the crook of her arm while he plays melodies on her toes. Paints her legs different colors with different degrees of pressure. Muscles hard as diamonds. Diamonds. A lot of diamonds lately. Diamonds in her ears. Diamonds speckled in her hair. Diamonds set behind her eyes.

The abyss, the rest of the stairwell, darkness swallowing darkness in selfish gulps, sucks him in. Somewhere else. Heel of a familiar foot in his lap and five toes braided with his fingers. Her voice tickling his ear in warm rasps. Late nights and early mornings spun tightly in a spool with her and a bed sheet. Kisses her because everyone knows. Public embraces. They go out for dinner hand-in-hand and he ends up shoveling food into his mouth because her foot rides high on his leg underneath the table. Ballets over ankle, shin, knees and thigh. Stockinged toes pluck at the disappearing wrinkles in his pants at high thigh and he yells for the cheque.

The tread of an SRU work shoe digs into the thick of his thigh and his brain shuts the fuck up. The depression of her sole remains on his skin. Shrines her in light, her right hand skims the rivulets between the brown bricks. Nails filing down against the jagged bumps in the stone. A moan escapes her. Weary, hazy, confused and hurt.

"Jules?" Ignores his own soaring head resting somewhere in a pit of clouds. Shoves off the slab and kneels before her contorting face. Eyes swirling into knots, plugged by clogging lashes and a layer of dust.

Positions the flashlight on the floor. Still illuminates the area, but won't flare in her abused eyes. She commences pushing herself up, arms swaying like cherry blossoms in a breeze. Legs curling to the side. Eyes barely open like she just awoke from a Sunday afternoon nap. Bangs pasting to her forehead, more security detail for her eyes. One hand scouts the back of her head while the other acts as a stabilizer. "Was I—" coughs once and groans from the pain. Still sways all diamonds and blossoms. "Was I unconscious?"

"Yeah Sweetheart. Yeah you were." Sputters it out. She's talking. She's fine with dayspring eyes and a careening body.

Knees shuffles closer. Pebbles seed. Will grow to full boulders on his knees and he doesn't care. Embraces her because he can. Let's her forehead fall to his chin. Plants kisses with the diamonds and ash woven in her hair. Let's his hand support her strained neck.

At first her fingers lick at the back of his head. Just shy of contacting his own wound. But then grow languid. Flop from his hairline, tickle his neck and hook into his coat collar before diving completely off his back. Head becomes heavy on his shoulder. Chin a pressure point as the side of her face masks against his neck.

"No, no, no, no." Yanks her back. Her eyes droop like petals on a withering flower. "Jules, you can't go to sleep. Not right now."

"I'm not sleeping." Immediately she argues, but at half capacity. "My eyes are—" flinches at rash radiance from Spike. Back to coercing blind pupils with multiple flashlights. Her eyes dance within the sockets from over stimulus. She ducks her head away, then bows in another direction. Teeth impaling her lip enforcing failure.

He cups a hand around the side of her face, slumbers in the dry bed from her ear. Fingers broad enough to shield her from the brightness. In the corner beams mingle. They're spun together in a centrifuge. Fireflies caught in a jar and jostled like a salt shaker. Toppling from an airplane in the nighttime sky towards the ground lit up by a thousand Christmas lights. A string of stars tied upon a lasso. Reflect off the specks of diamonds, ashes, and kisses in her hair.

"Thank you." She grins at him. Authentic. Tickles blooming eyes. Full lips crack, dust spurts out.

Words are pure relief. Cold in hot. Hot in cold. A gulp of unadulterated oxygen. The purest of pure. Requited love in every syllable. It's the basis for his calmness. Any part of her from a shed eyelash to an exhaled breath.

Rubs his spare thumb over her soft cheek where one of the darker dirt smudges smugly sits. Probably shaded by their contact. Brushes the side of her head with a finger. "Let me take a look."

Manages to roll her eyes through barely open slits. "Sam, it's fine."

"You know there's no way I'm letting you move without me—"

"Guys," Spike flashes directly at them. To avoid the ocular assault, Jules wobbles towards the wall. Hand deflates through two layers of coat to her vest as he helps her turn. The coat cackles and spare rocks from the wall clatter. "Ed and another team are going to the second floor to find a way to get us out."

"Okay Spike." Salvages the flashlight from the ground. Obstructs the light from the side of her face with his right hand. Her fingers circling around his palm and pressing his cool hand to her hot temple. Spare hand traces the light over her wound, starts just behind her left ear and runs to the back of her skull. "We'll be right over. I just want to make sure she doesn't have a concussion."

Slap reverberates through the stairwell. Tastes the rejection over the soot. The back of his hand singes. "I don't have a concussion."

"I just want to check." Replaces his hand, but she knocks it from her face like a mosquito. A buzzing, blathering, parasitic insect intent on annoying. Out for her blood. "Jules."

"You don't have to treat me like—"

Drops the flashlight. Light wavers and balances on invisible scales. Slides forward so his chest grazes the slope of her shoulder. "Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?" Neck twists to meet him. Impedes her movement. Forces her head straight. Fingers march on the border of her wound in the low light. It's not bleeding anymore. It doesn't need stitches. Just a superficial laceration.

Thumb wipes through the blood, sticky molasses on her neck. Lets his fingers drop and find her pulse. The common functionality of a heartbeat. One he could tap Morse code to. "You weren't waking up. We're stuck in here and you're lying there unconscious—"

"Hey." Revolves against his hand. Planets realigning. Shifting to each other's orbits. Spike's lights running track on the walls and fractured roof like lasers at a planetarium. A star show. Her face powdered in soot. Eyes responsive, but covert. Fatigue resting in the dust laden lines. The pressure within the well making her a diamond in a galaxy. "I'm okay, Sam."

No answer. Carries the light to her face. It drips between his fingers like rainwater. Like sand granules in a desert. Flinches at an invisible sound, at the punch of pain behind dark brown irises. The same pain they both share. Fist twists into the sleeve of his coat, five petal blossoms on a stone. Waggles the light before her eyes. White valleys crawling with red worms. Dots erupt and digest. Dark brown illuminates to light brown. Gradation from center out. Flecks of feathers within. In the very back, diamonds shimmer.

Lessens the light against the slab. Flicks a tear away with his thumb. Arid, painful. "You don't have a concussion."

Doesn't gloat. Doesn't tell him what a colossal waste of time this was. Face still cupped. Still protected. With light flushing up, projecting on both of them, she kisses him. Softly. Dryly. Perfectly. Just like every other one of her kisses. Maybe better.

Stands and his knees groan and shudder like metal walls in a windstorm. Spots of blood pucker at the mouth of his skin. Offers her his clean hand. Lets his head bob on his shoulders for a few minutes, like a perpetual motion bird. Constantly sipping. Diving.

"You know what's weird?" Floats up, barely enough of her to keep her on the ground.

Arm wraps around her waist to keep her earthbound. Came from the earth. Within the earth. Natural. Arm slung to hip. Just walking to the store. Just from the store to the car. Just into the restaurant. They're anywhere but here. Natural. The changing of seasons. The changing of positions. The shedding of petals. The shedding of clothing. The opening of flowers. The opening of mouths. The creation of diamonds. The creation of life. "What?"

"I think I dreamed about you using my blender."

* * *

10:47am

"Julianna Callaghan, it's good to hear your voice." Greg's relief melts over the mechanics of the comm. link. Seeps through garbled speakers and sparks the microphones to soothe twisted cords.

"It's good to be heard." Barely audible. Barely present. A filtered, flickering buzz of flitting wings at a hive. Static spuming honey. Viscous golden liquid jamming their communications. Instead bottle and label the voices for later.

Soupy ambiance. Whips of smoke curl by his face. Stretch out and arch against his skin like a purring cat with feathers sticking out of its mouth. No sound. Sound clips of a conversation in his ear. Three people. Two people. One person peer pressuring the others to join.

Foot falls scabrous. Gravel amounting to mountains under his foot. The carver of mountains. The climber of mountains. A modern day Sisyphus. The specks of gravel, of stone, of concrete, of intentional hurt on the linoleum floor weed thicker. Clutch together in scattered bundles. Grow abundant. Grow in legions.

"I'm approaching the second storey stairwell. I need the statuses of everyone below." Footsteps again. Mountains trundle from his heel. Waddle overweight trying to keep up.

"I'm sitting with Raf. We're against the walls near the doors."

"Sam and I are by the stairs. We're looking for any breaks in the rubble."

Boxed corner. Right angle. Wrong outcome. Recalibrate path to slip through the crevice in the walls. Mountains crunch beneath him. Flatten, return ocean bound. Atlantis for millennia. "Okay, stick close to the walls. I don't know how stable this floor is."

What if—What if he walks through and falls down. Then five trapped. But then a descent. A decent hole and search and rescue. Worth the risk. Job about risk. Job about chest shoving a boulder as big as a shopping cart up a straight incline, only to have it roll back down. Job is about crushing mountains and having them erupt to Pompeii thousands. Job about a maniac blowing up a high school and trapping his team.

Walk through. Crushes mountains. But not the one that counts. Dominates the room. The corridor. The windows. A plague of rubble spewed. Fractions of light sieve through the cracks like dying breaths. A quick breath because they might be flashlight beams from below. But belong to the overcast daylight through broken bay windows. Debris a constant exclamation point.

Collected up like a Mayan temple. Stairs over stairs. Rocks over rocks. Mountains under mountains. No way of getting down. Can't dig because rocks pile like prizes in a gumball machine. If he removed one, more would topple down. Can't tell them. Has to tell them. Can't tell them.

A bleached noise. Not from honeydew in the communications. Not from sentiments stinging the headsets. It's in the stairwell. The half well with him. A bland noise. Not unlike the malicious intent of bees' wings. But nostalgically electronic. Like the chime of a cell phone or a beep of a wristwatch.

A scarlet blaze emits from the temple. Showers the surrounding rocks of the effigy in an ethereal glow. A dab of blood on an obsidian mountain. The showings of lava within a volcano. All eerily familiar for a unique experiencing. Agitates his interest, so he crushes with caution until he looms over the radiating rock.

The red transforms. Concentrates until it forms numbers. Moving numbers. Numbers in rows, in constant motion. Four columns, the last of which can't stay stable. Constantly jumping. Descends to the point of stealing the third. Then the third releases a scream concentrated in a beep.

Stares at the moon. Recognized the glow from a clock face. A clock radio white and round like a low hanging moon. Stuck to some wires, stuck to some charges, stuck in the mountain. Hand ghosts up his body until it taps at the beings contained in his eardrum.

"Guys, there's another bomb."

* * *

_A/N#2: The first section was from Raf's POV. Hence the no descriptions (I realize he still has three and a half out of five senses (half of touch) but everyone has those senses too. Plus I figured the dramatic dialogue would be confusing like the state he's in. It was also the only time I'd ever get to do it. _


	3. Those Are Pearls That Were His Eyes

_A/N: Hey Guys, I meant to update the other story (People Watching AKA Peeping Lew AKA Peeing Lew) first but this chapter got written in only a few days. I'm going to give you the warning that from here on out things are going to get and remain** M-Rated** throughout for violence and death. A death does occur in this chapter (spoiler alert right) and will further be examined in next chapter (so do your required readings and come with 3 study questions). I'm doing this now, because you will NOT get warnings for the next death(s). Buckle up. You're going down.  
On a lighter note, Happy Birthday KateEals.  
On an appreciative note, thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, alerted and read. I know the style is a little hard to understand but you guys are trying. So I'm willing to keep at it. _

Elysian Fields

Chapter 3

Those Are Pearls That Were His Eyes

10:42am(?)

Marshlands wallow inside her head. Stagnant and brackish. Drab olive surface efflorescent with algae clouds. Plumes and blooms which harp and heel. Ripple and seal when a concrete rock, meant to skip the surface, plunges below the rotten flicker. Tacky mud slung to the back of her neck muzzles the collar of her coat to her skin. Bulrushes thrust wildly from the ground. Buckle on mercurial stalks. Waver and bend into her eyes. Constantly in her eyes.

"Where did they go again?"

Tongue laps her bottom lip. Wets it like the brim of an envelope. Travels over stony mead where moss grows. Tastes vegetables. Chlorophyll. Tongue bathes for relief in the equally stagnant air of the well. Heated and dry.

"Sam and Spike went to examine the debris by the stairs." Lips smack off the moldy aftertaste. Swallows algal pond water down the gully of her throat. "Ed is upstairs trying to find a way down."

Raf closes his barren eyes. Head rolls up against the chunked painted brick. Cookies dipped in coffee by a window watching the April rains. No water. No rain. Drops in the form of a million fragments of concrete. In her shoes, in her pockets, in her pants, in her hair, in her soul. "If he does get down. I want you guys to go out first. Let me go last."

"Injured go out first." Lids slip closed. Silhouettes of summer canopies. Leaves and keys imbricating against a radiant backdrop. Spear of sun slashing through. Naïve, inquisitive, then abrasive. Another flashlight in her eyes.

"What about that seniority stuff?"

Laughs. Coddles the base of her skull, where dirty whorls concentrate, and laughs. Burden eyes reopen a sliver to observe his lack of movement. "I have seniority over all of you. Injured go out first."

"Isn't everyone injured?"

Everyone is, but not as bad as him. Spine stalks up, presses flat against the wall. Pressed flat between two pages. Distantly, shoes crunch. The first snowfall, perfectly formative but unique flakes. A flash frost with a crisp layer, quick feet don't sink through. They skip across the surface. "Why don't you want out, Raf?"

Exhales. Chest deflates under the shell of his coat. Leafy sheathe like husk on a corn stalk. "If you were me, would you want out?"

"Isn't it better than the alternative?" Head bobs, top heavy like the over blossomed flower on an extravagant plant. One that flourishes too young and wilts too soon.

"You don't believe in God, do you?"

Bulrushes in her eyes again. Vast fields of wheat billowing in a dry September breeze. Cloud of dust stirring at her knees, spiraling upwards and thrusting pebbles into her bared skin. Gravel sowed in her skin, her shins and knees through her pants. The palms of hands supine to the ground.

Knees trunk out of the ground, elbows rake down her skin, shave to the bone until resting with puzzle piece coordination against her thighs. Forehead falls to her upturned forearms and her eyes submit again to closing."Which one?"

"God. Buddha. Shiva. Zeus. Any one?"

Forehead slips against the dry crinkle of her coat. Autumn leaves in ambered colors. Slides like sap down a bough until her chin hits her chest. "Not really. No."

"You can tell because you're afraid of what comes next."

"Yeah?" An eyebrow plateaus, heavy blossomed head whips around in a semicircle until upright again, hair serpentine down her back and into the mud like crawling ivy. "How can you tell this isn't a test for that?"

"Because God ends pain, he doesn't prolong it."

"Which one?"

He chuckles at his own folly. The roots of her fingers curl around his. Sweat from his hand activates the soot to a gummy liquid form. "This kind of reminds me of this one time when I was seven."

"Yeah?" Legs furrow beneath her, grow firmly into the well. The empty cistern.

"Me and my dad were using the subway and there was a blackout. I—"

"Guys, there's another bomb." Ed's voice filters through the comm. link. Igniting like a rock off flint. Stability is shaken. Body, including connected hand, violently flinches.

"What?" Hand releases hers and the air is a hot breath on her clammy skin. Relaxes her muscles like a person caught in an undertow. Smells soils, earth in the soil and salt. "What's wrong?"

"There's another bomb." Can't hear the placating crunch of shoes over rubble. Just a three man conversation occurring at a round robin in her ear canal. Hands plant on thighs, watches the darkness for a sign of him, for a sign of accosting rays.

"Where? Upstairs. If the—" The dialogue stops midsentence. Raf's mouth hooks slack before his brain does a mental reboot."This kind of reminds me of this one time when I was seven."

"Raf?"

Skitters from the abyss, from the doubts and the need for snow crunches. Snow cones on the street in August. His falls to the pavement, melts between concrete cracks and tenacious weeds sprouting in an inch of dirt. Chomps a crescent into hers, and she sucks purple syrup off his chin.

"We were—" Stiff and still. Straightened out and staked into the ground. A human scarecrow in a cornhusk jacket. Button eyes stitched in place. "But the white keys? No pedals."

"Raf. I need you to answer a few questions for me okay?" Head rotates, circles on his neck a few times like black birds hovering over his field. Hovering over his carcass. Roots with his hand again, his fingers twitch in her palm like Sam's fingers on her toes when she sleeps.

"What's your full name?"

"Rafik Rousseau."

"What's your job?"

"SRU officer."

"Where are we?"

"In the subway, the lights went out."

Lips purse together, mossy covered rocks on the seal of an envelope. "Oh Raf."

"I need your PDAs now." Spike's voice carries in the well. In the water tower. Echoes and swirls in natural torrents around raised river rocks. Can almost hear the trickle. The crunching ceases because water seeps from the snow, dribbles down into the gulch.

Fluid shapes flutter from the abyss. The weak beams bounce onwards. Raf's flashlight bathes them like a slow, spring drizzle. He over illuminates for a brief moment before stepping out, towards her, glows only in the tail of his own beam.

"Raf, has—" Spelunks against the coffee and cream walls. The rain on a Sunday afternoon outside the bay window of a corner café. His hand swooping across the table, thumb licking a dab of froth away from her bottom lip, then dipping into his mouth. "He's altered."

Staggers, blossom headed forward. Each rock a raindrop. Each raindrop frozen to giddy feet, dizzy with the prospect of being replanted. He stops her mid-tumble, a log rolling down a hillside, with a nonabrasive hand to her shoulder.

"Easy standing up. Take a few seconds before trying to walk."

"He—he doesn't know where he is. He's confused and—" Intelligence plummets ungracefully. Everything inside her chest wants to spit out of her mouth at once. Needs to say every word, half word, and sound simultaneously flashing through her brain.

"Raf." Spike crouches at the side of their teammate. Left hand fumbling to tap his conscious hands. "I need you to try to find your PDA for me okay? Mine is broken and Ed is sending pictures of the bomb."

"I don't know where mine is." Hands wilt from his forearms, frees one of her biceps from the hug of his hand. Starts to slap random coat and pant pockets in search of a stupid phone.

"Jules—"

"I don't know where—"

"Jules." Fingers coil tighter around her bicep. Not forceful, not for injury. For a stone's skip. Cultivates her awareness. Awareness through swaying bulrushes. "You left it in the rig. In the console between the seats."

"Yeah." Smile teeters off the corner of her lips. Moss crumbles. "Yeah I remember." Passenger's seat. Corner kept stabbing her through her pants. Tossed it in the cup holder. "I forgot Sam. I forgot—"

"Hey." Cradles her head, hand at the base of her skull. Phantom pantomiming previous motions. Sturdy arms without the threat of a breaking bough. Envelops her before the first tear. Pre-hydration. "It's okay Jules. You're okay." Knows her panic, her fear, the reason behind the rustling bulrushes which he brushes aside. "Just think about how many times I forget my wallet in my pants when you do the laundry."

Grins through melting tears. Snow to the river. Head bowing to his chest. Knows the abandonment of his wallet in his jeans is purposeful. Every Sunday he goes to the bank for pocket money for the week. She never has the time, so he withdraws double and leaves the money in his wallet and his wallet in his pants. She started stealing her share as negative reinforcement for him to remember to take his damn wallet out of his pocket.

"Yeah." His thumb strums up her jaw and by her ear lobe. Wishes they were at home in bed. Silky, clean sheets. Pillow pliable on her weighted head. Him passed out on his chest next to her. Arm anchored over her stomach in unconscious love.

A clamorous click interrupts the embrace. A click which flows through their ears daily. Which is the rationale for him to whirl them. Stops at a half gyration and she floats like gossamer. Like a dandelion spore. The action is so immediate the click still resonates through the well, still billows through the bulrushes while she factors in her own displacement.

"Raf, that's not your PDA, Buddy."

* * *

10:37am(?)

A clack. The noise brings familiarity like a recognizable face on the street. A maple tree branch tapping the bedroom window on a turbulent night. The crack of balls being broken against a cloth table on a pub date. The security of a locked door.

The familiarity is not welcome. Not mirthful, but malice. The hollow beat. The turbine. The roulette. A metallic version of the waterwheel. The beat always hollow no matter who stands on the other side. Him. Jules. Some unknown escalating subject. Hollow beat hollow because the action is always faithless.

Sleek surface falling flaccid in typhlotic hands. Heedless, violent, irrational in a state of eternal darkness without spotlights of dancing fireflies. Without dapples of diamonds mirroring the love of the past five years. The past five lifetimes. The diamonds. The cherry blossoms.

Foot falls out of line with her, through fragrant realm of natural mysteries. Inquiries. Hollow beat hollow. Stands before her. Ahead of her. Crag of shoulder to her head. Less than feet. Foot. Toes. Inches. Fingers can tap like tree branches against her window if he wishes.

Hollow beat hollow and safety is off. No net to catch the swinging act. No spotter. Just a sidearm wavering drunkenly in the air, a false sense of superiority around it which they all adhere by. A sixth overlaps her, because the gun wags like an old dog's tail.

"Raf." Spike is nearest. Palms down but fingers splaying up defenseless. It's a fruitless effect. A tree with cherry blossoms snowing down. Eyes dart behind and she's safe. Quarter shielded by his lumbering shoulder. Diamonds in her eyes circumflexing.

Raf's irises hold no color. Hold the same color, but no color. Not even the abstract color certain rings discharge on heated fingers. No emotion for no color because there is no color. His images are masticated by a violating, concentrating hue of black. The soot, dust and ash wiped clean from their corneas, but permeated his. Two carious tubers instead of rods and cones. Hollow beat hollow.

"That's not your PDA Buddy." Joviality, in the nervous chuckle tying the end of the sentence. "Why don't you pass that to me—" Spike's foot undulates forward through the rubble, crunches down seed-sized pieces of concrete.

Sidearm convulses. Perks up in two stumbling hands. Palms thumping around the handle and fingers curving to the trigger. Aimed out, not in. Aimed into the cavern. The temple. The tomb. The gaping maw full of darkness and angles ripe for ricochet.

"Raf." Spike halts immediately. Shoe precarious in weight and slant.

"Raf's got—He's got his sidearm. It's aimed out—Not at Spike. He can't see—No. Not—The safety's off." Tender voice trips over its own sentences behind him. Words pricking the air too quick. Jerking with unplanned breathes. Body writhes behind him. Petals plucked.

"Let's talk about—"

"I can't." Sobs. Mouth opens and a spray of spittle slaps against the handle.

"You're not thinking straight." Breaks protocol. No more than one person negotiating at once. But they're his team. She's his family. Needs to get them out. Knows what it's like to be in the dark. In the desert with no diamonds or blossoms. "There's pressure in your brain, and it's making you think some crazy things."

"Won't be able to use the pedals. On my bike. On my piano. Hot pavement. Cool grass. Waves at the lake. A sunset. Steam from a cup of coffee. Worms after it rains."

"The pressure probably caused your blindness. It might be reversible, we don't know anything yet." Sidearm languishes. Barrel aims at a nonsentient group of rocks. "Let's just work together to go home."

Treads away from her to retrieve the gun. She stirs suspended actions. Possibly to follow him, possibly to beg him back. Is even with, then surpasses Spike. Foot and leg a dilapidated wooden shack. Trembling in a whispering breeze.

Almost to Raf. Almost to the gun. Then to the bomb. Then to the outside. Then to bed flat on his chest with his arm sinking around her stomach. Almost out of the desert. But the shack collapses. Spike's foot shatters all debris with a loud, grainy roar. The gun becomes erect and fires.

A game of pinball erupts with the first bullet. Sheet metal and pipes ping. A brief strobe effect occurs with the clashes of metal against metal. Dashes with his back against a man literally shooting blind. Hollow beat hollow in the clangs and clacks of trains exploding in a stairwell. Of deserts exploding in his ears.

Grabs the collar of her coat and drives her down. Shoves her to the earth. Earthbound. Keep her centered. The slab they used earlier rests on a slant. Buries her under the protective lip rising upwards. Only exact math will hit her, exact and equated math.

But no other bullets bounce by. Turns back to Raf to determine if the shot was a fluke. Numbers two and three hit him. Hollow. Beat. Hollow. Beat. Sails backwards through a curtain of cherry blossoms, aromatic as ever. Through a map full of dancing diamonds. Hears her scream.

Back of legs mold over mountainous rubble. Wheezes in as immolation begins in his lungs. Two furnaces set ablaze. Breathes out and can't breathe back in. Expanse of back flattens against the ground. A flat palmed slap which knocks free the raindrop's worth of air he has left. Skull smacks again. Lolls to the side. Hears her voice. Not hyper breathed. Heavy with his name. Same darkness that claimed Raf's vision overtakes his, but he hears it.

Number four.

* * *

10:50am

Another shot. Another bullet. A torpedo locked and loaded with the violent roar of a half mast flag. The sound of murderous thunder, a blitzkrieg at the touch of a trigger. Instant injury. Five and six. Almost halfway through the magazine. Finger pounding away until the passive click.

"Buddy, think about—"

"Sam. Sam speak to—"

"What the hell's going on in there Eddy?" Yells over the booming. The metallic pressure and twang. The rusty flavor of bloody dribbling from his bit lip.

"I don't know Greg; I'm trying to disarm the bomb."

A bomb. A gun. Five sacrificial lambs. Safe. Safe in the cradle of the hood of a rig. Safe away from rubble and metal. Away from bullets and buttons. Away from clicking triggers and ticking numbers. Safe in a street surrounded by sentries of squad cars. A boss, a teammate, a friend, a father. A man, his body flayed with each cherished scream.

"You're hurting us. You're not—"

"—You have to get up."

Seven. Seven. Seven. And soundless.

The sibilant static cackles into his ears. Floods his canals. Suez. Panama. Venice. Water in the streets. Water in his eyes. Fire in his throat as his chest seizes. Flag snaps off to his side, the ends becoming frayed. At his feet a wrapper crumples by, tumbles into the slits of a sewer grate.

"Status," bellows it like a breaching whale. Balled fists slam into the hood of the rig. Scorn its protection. Lingering officers pop away from their conversing poses in case he's addressing them. "Team One status now."

Seven. Silent. Saturninity. Soundless.

"Situation Contained."


	4. They Called Me the Hyacinth Girl

_A/N:Hey guys, I was going to do a whole deconstruction about what happened in the last chapter, because there was a lot of questions, but I decided against it because you don't get that in real novels unless you buy the Cliffnotes version and then you cheated yourself out of a really good thing._  
_**However, as always, my offer still stands that if you have any questions you'd like answered (pertaining to anything) please PM me and I'll see to them privately**.  
This chapter should clear up some of the mishmash though.  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, alerted, and read. I know that depending on who the character is (like when it's not Greg or Ed) it gets tricky to understand. Thanks for staying around through the sticky bits.  
_

Elysian Fields

Chapter 4

They Called Me the Hyacinth Girl

10:50am(?)

The fourth bell tolls on the holiday glebe. Soil hallowed, holy, solid with the shattering of seasons. The scattering of snow. Skin flakes, ash flakes revolving in a slow airborne tumble from his decent. The ground is dead. And now arid. And now crackling. And now stringy with blended lives. A thousand dead and a thousand more.

Looms over him. Palm foot striking his shoulder like an electric prong. Willing life to current through every cell. Face remains stock. A crick in a slab in a stone. A crackle in the arid earth. The frayed finish of string untwisting from yanking at either end.

Rivulets crook down the curve of her cheek. Under the shield of hissing bulrushes. Dip over mossy florets blanketing the fissures in her lips. Salty and clary. Straddles him. Thighs anchor, two palms thunder to his chest. The bell tolls. Again. Then again. A call for mass. Sunday mourning. Inside the church doors. Hallowed ground. Not really. No. A mosquito buzzes by her right arm.

"Sam. Sam speak to me." Fingers undo gnarled metal teeth. Shucking corn. Ray of light splays the expanse of black over his chest. All black. A black vest. Except for two slugs. Demented with broken backs. Dissolved in a teaspoon of salt. Mirror the light. Gleam like diamonds.

Runnels grow heated. Laughs like the sweet song of a newly freed caged bird. Hand cups his jaw; fingers spread and grow around his face like weeds. A faint beat flutters under her tips like a strummed cord. "Sam, you have to wake up okay?"

Plows through redden hair. Follows the river bed forking around his ear. Over the dale a final bell. Church service. "Please Sam. For me, you need to wake up."

Chest explodes. Horseys her in the air. One of the slugs clatters to the ground. Rolls in a slow semicircle. Crickets. His chest bouncing in a humid summer rhythm. Crickets. Lungs squeak out the same strained leg violin symphony. Heels scope and till the ground, ravenous like an animal struck by a car. Eyes wrinkle shut, like the delicate petals of a flower during twilight hour. Ribs xylophone plink with minor breathes.

The well heats in the afternoon. Infertile environment evaporating her tears and leaving only salts. Smelling salts. Salts for him to smell. And he does. Smell them. Hand glides sightless through the air. White albatross with a wide wingspan. Lands at her hip and glissades to her thigh. Contains her thigh in the hearth of his palm.

"Ugh."

Salvia sprinkles from his mouth with a painful cough. Splatters on the floor and coaxes hyacinths out of the battered Earth. Plants in bulbs, buds and full bloomed flowers rainbowed in pastel Easters. Each individual blossom a lobe, a hanging bell jingling merrily in victory.

Worms underneath her and the hearth heats her thigh in pressure. Chest angles, a slow process like the sun breaking over acres of valley. Acres of hyacinths. Many men going to mine the salt deposits of her own tears. Without thought to the damage slugs could've caused to his internal greenery, his broken xylophone keys, she cocoons him. Clutches on like there's a hole in the Earth between jingle bell flowers and scorched glebe and if she lets him go she'll topple in like dirt clods kicked from a boot.

"You're okay." Sobs into the gash of red running ragged through his hair. Fingers thresh; feel the pebbles, the grit, grime, oil and life. Hand collapses over the cords of his neck like sopping clothing thrown on a line. "You're okay. You're okay."

Head nestles at her breasts. Cheek to vest. The same likeness that saved him. Failed her. Vest to chest. Wonders if he's searching for the stressed heart jazz beat. If it's familiarity helps him stumble out old steps. Hot air from his nostrils slaps her bare arm, turns less obligated, more natural.

"You don't get to do that again." Palms secure the equal sides of his face. Blue. Non-displaced blue. The only water in the well. The only thing to make hyacinths grow. Her own tears distilled.

"Believe me." Voice smooshes like a grape. The tightness of her fingers on his jaw and cheeks. "I don't want to."

Rams into his shoulder with her closed fist. Four perfectly lined knuckles might actually knock the air he's regained out. Might actually act as a third slug. "You don't get to do that again Sam, because I can't take it. I can't take it. I can't take it. I can't take it if—"

"Okay. Okay. It's okay." Reclaims his original height. His original support. Towers like a solitary redwood. But coils around her. Arms, probably aching, lift hers, incapable, around his neck. They spiral together, two trees nurturing and growing together as one.

Saltwater runnels and rivulets flow, cheek mashes his neck, his cheek, his temple. Water clears away newfound dust and ash. Injury and lingering doubt. Drops kisses onto his face like they're common notes to a lullaby. Like they're pulled petals from hyacinths falling to a pond.

Fingers swat at the swinging end of her ponytail, the crawling ivy. Wiggles it. Sturdies it. Cements it in place. Then trickle down biceps, to her bare arms. "Where's your coat?"

"It got stuck under the slab." Coat hangs in the cave. Hangs and drifts by a twisting arm. Slowly twists by the arm. Like a dead man from a tree. "How's your chest? Your head?"

"My chest is a little tight. I might've bruised a rib or two. My head is—You're bleeding."

"So are you." Ray oscillates between them. Sun spotting behind dangerous clouds. Violent clouds. Stripteasing between tree branches for seasons. Naked in the winter. "Your head is what?"

"No. Your arm." Ray stops and centers. Hand clamps around her right bicep, tips swivel through the rivers of blood cascading down her arm like he's finger painting. "When did you hurt your arm?"

"I don't know." Red. Fields of red. Red carnations. Red poppies. Not opulent enough to receive red roses. Not the type. Would rather have a plant. Still has the plant. "Maybe—Maybe when my coat got stuck it cut me?"

"No, you got nicked." Fingers slice like knives. Slash at the sleeve. Flushes under soil. Under earth. Eroded fabric laps at her skin, mossy soft.

"No. If—If I—" Incarnadine and crimson. Petals of a million. Scent is natural. Earthen. Dirt under nails. Perfumed floral and botanic. Hyacinths and poppies smothering her senses like an aromatic pillow. Bloom like the algae in her brain. Coax her breathes to few, to relax, to sleep. "I wood—would've—"

"Hey. Hey. Jules." Puzzle pieces. Chin fits between his index and thumb. Tilts her then blossomed; now wilting head up. Direct rays. Red. Incarnadine and crimson under lids. Flutter fatigued like a touched butterfly. "No. No sleeping. I woke up for you."

"I'm—I'm fine." Hyacinths and poppies picked dry. Barren dust toils in the stillness of her mind. "I didn't get shot. It was when you pushed me— "

"I pushed you in there so you wouldn't get shot." Digs ditches for bodies in her arm. Prods and cultivates fire. The same fire that birthed ash. Buried on his face and in her hair. Crumbs and the slit of his nails rush over peaked skin.

"And then you got shot twice and didn't move so I scrambled out—Ahh" Gates off her arm. Dams the river. Pale skin abstracts in contrasts. In reds. Silhouettes of kite tails. Inkblots of his prints in perfection.

"Which defeats not only the purpose of me pushing you in there but of me getting—"

"I'm not arguing with you, Sam." Bounces off of stalactites bone dry, sucked of marrow. Doesn't have the time. Proper cocktail dress and clutch time. Doesn't have the strength. Strength is measured in cups of poppy petals floating in brackish air.

Freezes like sprigs caught in subzero rain. Like the holiday glebe. Like the naked trees who are left violated in winter. "Okay."

Hearth beckons her to him. Warms the base of her head. Falls against him silent in a well with no one around to hear except a nagging voice in her ear. Two twisting arborescent forms relying on each other to keep from falling. "Okay."

* * *

10:45am (?)

Fires a flare. But no one notices him. Starts a race. But nobody moves. No body. Pomegranate wrist reposes easily by his thigh. Left hand agitates in the air. Sick bird. Avian flu. Flew straight into a power line and poof. Smoke and feathers. Cloak and daggers. Not daggers. Not this time. First time. Last time. Stiff as a board light as a feather.

There's just a beam of light. Well, a little more than that. Some concrete rocks. Some metal. The chittering of metal in his left hand. The uneven terrain under his feet. Sinks into the soles of his shoes like every child's first lost tooth. Residual fumes drooling from barrels like in black and white private eye flicks. The ruby red apple of an eye. A third eye, almost center stage. Wasn't aiming for—it just sort of—he's right handed and had to shoot with his left hand. He had to shoot with his left hand. He had to shoot. He had to.

Shot the birds. Shot the cat. Shot the guy in the SUV. Stole the car and drove to Boca Rotan for the swinging singles scene. No scene. Crime scene. What has been seen can't be unseen. Seen. Saw. Sees two licks of tomato sauce breaking over his nose. Dripping syrup style onto his timbered arm. Gun still swaddled, still coughing wisps of smoke. Eyes open, rolled upwards at an outside sky he'll never see. Saw. Seen.

"Michelangelo. Julianna. You answer me now."

Sorry Dad. We were just playing cops and cops in the stairwell and didn't hear you calling. No honest, we didn't know you were outside and needed our help. We forgot you were out there. A bomb upstairs? And Ed is screwing around with it? I must've for—shut the fuck up.

Ruby red and poisonous. Thick droplets staining his coat. His bicep smolders. Laughing end of newspaper devouring itself, orange diffusing to rotten black. Black mackling his skin in tiger stripes. Finger ghosts over the trigger full stress. Tiger skinned, apple-eyed, wear your best red dr—

"Spike?"

Soles roil up the pebbles; fling them into a mock tornado as he pivots. Right arm unraveled like a fire hose, slapping on the ground behind him. Left arm plumb in all eccentricities. Stops his revolution and his sidearm chatters, debases him with high school locker giggles.

Sam springs forward. His fingers stitch into a strap on Jules' vest. With little strength he directs her behind him. Her shoes precarious and wheeling over debris.

Concrete clatters. The gun in his hand clatters. Tiger camouflage injures off the savannah. No one wants to stride through the concrete jungle like a big, orange, furry freak. She dissolves, but there's a solid thump. Assumes she whacks Sam in the back because her voice is his borrowed growl.

"Why do you keep—"

"Because your head is where my heart is and my heart is covered by a vest." Sam too is redder than usual. Galaxies of reds and brown swirling across his face. Plagues of Egypt. Two out of ten. "Spike, what are you doing?"

"I just—I didn't—" And it's not right. He doesn't understand because he wasn't meant for this. Wasn't meant to shoot a blind friend in the caved in stairwell of a preppy high school. Wasn't meant to be trained to ride unicycles on a stage show in Vegas.

Reprimand. Dog bites a kid and gets put down. Stage tiger mauls a handler and gets put down. Circus elephant rampages and gets put down. It's nature through adaptation. Someone was shooting at him, hot coins of metal whizzing by his ear like jet fighters, and he bit. He mauled. He rampaged. Can't not feel emotions adapted and inherent to him. Can't just bob up and down, enameled like a depiction of a dog, or tiger, or elephant on a calliope-tuned carousel.

"Spike?" Dulcet chirrup disposes Sam's vilifying nature. Airy like the first notes of a nightingale in the predawn. Just one on the wire. Just a solitary bird willing to keep him company. Doesn't notice Sam's scowl while flitting by. Notices Raf's corpse. Apple-eyed, tomato cheeked. Fingers fly to her mouth but her hand occludes. "Oh Spike, I'm so sorry."

"I didn't mean to." First tears. Soupy. Chunky. Abnormal in a mixing bowl of dust and his perspiration.

"I know. " Tweets and twirls out of Sam's open pawed swipe to retain her. A cage within a cage. Concern for concern. Frightened little bird with the saddest brown eyes he's ever seen. "He re-escalated. He was in pain. He was scared. I think he wanted to die, but I don't think he could do it himself."

"I aimed for his arm because I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I don't want anyone to get hurt." Shot a piece of metal directly into someone's brain and claims he didn't want anyone to get hurt. Raf acted on instinct. On adaptation. Raf bit. Mauled. Rampaged. In the form of open firing on his friends. His team. Wonders if he wanted to be put down.

"It's not your fault Spike. You did what Sam, or I would have done. What we're trained to do." Within reach now. All brown and red spackled in ancient war markings. The same brown and red as Sam. As Raf. He's the only one who got pomegranate. Grape. Wine. He's the only one worthy enough of having ambrosia from the God's soldered under his skin. He took the shot. "But now you have to put the gun down, okay?"

Mangled piece of metal. Does the Charleston in his left hand. Owes Sam a beer, because down the sight is her head. "Oh God." Spooks him better than any Halloween movie horror story. Discharges the gun from his hand faster than it fires bullets. Like the scorching aftermath of friction finally singed his hands.

She flutters into his arms, breezily embracing him. Smells of earth and flowers, but not typical garden herbs and flora. Curious blossoms. Over her radiant hair, Sam finally lowers his weapon. Prowls on the banks.

"Jules? What's your status?"

The embrace shatters. Mirror dropped from a mountain. Left to rot overtime and morphs to concrete. To stone. Dust spurts from her heels as she flutters back. Tags along, back in reigns, to the center of the stage.

"Sarge we got Spike."

"Spike?"

"Here Boss."

"You had me worried. What about Raf?"

"Raf's gone."

"Gone? Jules what do y—"

"Greg, I have fifteen minutes on this bomb."

Bombs. Bombs. He knows bombs. Bombs he can deal with. Bombs are simple schematics and math. Simple proven formulas. Numbers crumbled into a ball and then chucked at a blackboard for sorting. He can do bombs. "Can you remove it?"

Jules cradles the microphone. Snuffs out the sound. Eyes on the ceiling, masked above them in darkness. Searching listless for sky. "He can't. The way the ceiling caved in buried it. He only has limited access to the wires."

"There's just one more wire to cut based on the schematics I got from the—"

"Whoa, Ed. If you cut the wrong wire you'll blow yourself to bits, not to mention bury us alive." Lungs have already become a terrarium for the dirt and bacteria he's been breathing in for the last half an hour. Doesn't want a matching bracelet. Doesn't' want to end up a victim of a fashion show.

"Spike," A harsh exhale, the crack of surf chomping at the side of a bluff. "It's a single wire coming directly from the fuse. I sent pictures to everyone's PDAs. Do you guys have one yet?"

"You can use mine." Jules' hands hummingbird over her body. Hover at pockets and crevices in search for the device. Missing jacket overlooked. Pants pockets burrowed into. He and Sam exchange a brief glance.

Sad, brown, birdy eyes greet his once again. Head tilts with just the slightest hint of confusion. Of understanding within misunderstanding. Of pure innocence. "I don't know where I put it."

Vocal cords vibrate to answer her. But Sam lunges. Forces a black phone with a slivered screen into his left hand. Arm wraps around the small of her back, consumed in a bulky vest. Pecks her temple, hand curls like a kitten at the base of her skull, fingers flicking to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I think you left it in the rig."

"Yeah." Head preens against his chest. Tucks away her expression with her insecurities. "Yeah, I think you're right."

Sam glares at him. Impales him with two spears from five feet away. Daring him to correct him. Expose the truth. Tell her how—but he won't, because she is his single bird. Free caged bird who sang to him anyways. Doesn't want her song to be tarnished by this.

Start screen flickers dimly through the spider web impact. Loads and he's left to traverse through a monitor smaller than a piece of cheese and fragmented into twenty pieces. "Ed, I'm trying to use Sam's PDA. Don't do anything before I get a chance to look at the schematics."

"By then it'll be too late. I'm just going to have to cut the wire either way, Spike."

"Ed." Gestures to the back wall. To Raf's final resting place. The only wall with interior structures behind it which might survive another disaster. The wall will. They won't. But for some reason they meander towards the monolith anyway. "It could be a dummy wire that trips the bomb. You don't—"

"Get back against the entrance because I'm cutting it."

"Eddy, maybe give him a second to look at the plans."

"Greg, I think I know wha—"


End file.
